


too dangerous to fall

by starstrung



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Not looking directly at feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-24 06:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30068061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstrung/pseuds/starstrung
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a one-armed menace. He has murder eyes and no care for basic safety protocols. His jokes are terrible and his bad moods are worse. He’s a godawful roommate who leaves his wet towels on the floor and his combat knives in the linen cabinet. Sam can’t stand the sight of him.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Sam Wilson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 255





	too dangerous to fall

The thing is, most days, Sam would absolutely trade Bucky Barnes for one single corn chip.

Like, he wouldn’t even think about it. He would not hesitate for a single second. Maybe he’d feel a fleeting moment of guilt thinking about what Steve would say if he wasn’t lost in the space-time continuum or taking an extended vacation in a separate timeline or whatever. But after that brief moment of contrition, Sam would make the deal with Satan and have Bucky packaged and sent off as soon as possible.

It gets worse when Sam wakes up hard one morning after dreaming about Bucky’s mouth on him, kissing him, sucking him off. That morning Sam spends a horrified five minutes staring at the ceiling thinking, _oh hell no_.

Sam’s dick doesn’t know what’s good for it, clearly. Bucky Barnes is a one-armed menace. He has murder eyes and no care for basic safety protocols. His jokes are terrible and his bad moods are worse. He’s a godawful roommate who leaves his wet towels on the floor and his combat knives in the linen cabinet. Sam can’t stand the sight of him.

 _His mouth is pretty though_ , Sam’s brain counters, and Sam groans and heaves himself off the bed to take a subzero cold shower.

He gets into the tiny kitchen of the safehouse to find Bucky hunched over a bowl of cereal and a stack of files. He looks up at Sam as he walks in and Sam swears Bucky somehow knows exactly what Sam dreamed about last night, like he used some creepy Russian spy technique to read his mind.

“Coffee,” Bucky grunts and jerks his head. He is not a morning person.

“Thanks,” Sam grunts in return. He is not a morning person either. On this they are agreed. There will be no further conversation until they’re both sufficiently caffeinated. 

Steve used to be their morning person. Sam really hopes it’s not a requirement of being Captain America. He already feels hopelessly inadequate as it is without being the sort of person who wakes up at six in the morning to fire up the blender and make protein shakes while humming along to the radio.

“Those the satellite images?” Sam asks.

“Yeah.” Bucky slides over the pictures. Sam glances over them. They’re grainy, but Sam can see the base they’re supposed to be infiltrating, watchtowers and fortified walls.

“It’s not going to be easy,” Bucky says, and crunches on his cereal. He keeps buying the sugary stuff, the kind with plastic toys at the bottom and word puzzles on the back of the box. Sam gives him a hard time for it, but he secretly loves the way the sugar makes his teeth ache.

He pours himself a generous bowl. He doesn’t get the toy, which is a bummer. Bucky’s always so smug when he gets the toy.

“I can handle it,” Sam says, arrogant as he can, because fake it ‘til you make it, right?

Bucky rolls his eyes. He yelled at Sam for an hour after their last mission for making a risky maneuver and not warning him beforehand. It was kind of sweet.

“At least try to sound like you’re not going to give me another heart attack,” Bucky says, sullen.

“Not my fault your heart’s all old and failing,” Sam says. 

Bucky crunches on his sugary cereal loudly and vindictively.

“Guard rotations?” Sam asks.

“Swaps out every six hours. Best approach is from the west. More blind spots,” Bucky says, gesturing to one of the images with his spoon.

Sam picks up the picture, studies it. After a long moment he concedes Bucky’s right.

“Just another day at the office then,” Sam says, slurping cereal milk. The words are light, but it’s true that he’s beginning to feel the exhaustion of this life, day by day.

“What’s the matter, getting tired of being a hero?” Bucky says.

“Yeah, all the adoration and the crowds chanting my name is getting old,” Sam says, dry.

“You get to fly today though,” Bucky says, with this little tilt to his head, like he knows exactly what those words will do to Sam.

And he’s right. Just like that, Sam brightens up. The look on Bucky’s face is a little too knowing, but fuck him.

“Damn right,” he says, and grins.

  
  
  


Sam loves flying more than he loves anything else. In the sky, he’s hardly a person. He’s nothing but quick reflexes, freefall, and the weight of his wings on his back. He doesn’t have to think when he’s up there. He sees his own shadow streak across the landscape below, trusting himself not to fall, and he feels completely free. There’s nothing like it.

Adjusting to life on the ground was the hardest part of coming back home. He’s talked to other pilots, soldiers like him who still dreamt of weightlessness, the unique elation of flight. Sam doesn’t think he ever really stopped longing for it.

The days when Sam gets to be in the sky make all the other days worth it.

Riley used to strap his wings on before a drop. They would do it for each other, a sort of pre-flight ritual. The wings were cumbersome to put on by yourself — it could be done, but it was just faster if someone else helped. Plus, since they were prototypes, they had to be checked over for any kind of defects beforehand. Sam knew Riley’s wings as intimately as his own. He was the one who strapped them onto Riley’s back the last time Riley flew.

Now he has Bucky to do that for him.

At first, it was just to help him get into his wings quickly for an emergency. They were being chased, and needed Sam in the air as soon as possible. Sam had been struggling, and then suddenly Bucky’s hands were there, sure and quick, a silent agreement passing between them. Sam had barely needed to direct Bucky at all, like Bucky had been watching Sam put on his wings this whole time, had memorized the steps to it.

But even now, when they have plenty of time before the drop, Bucky’s the one standing at his side, securing his wings. He’s standing close, his breath against Sam’s neck, his metal hand briefly pressing against the side of Sam’s ribs, holding his attachments secure.

Sam feels Bucky lean in closer. He barely keeps himself from shivering.

“What happens if you get an itch on your back, wearing this thing?” Bucky says conversationally.

“Oh my god,” Sam says, with horror. “Why are you doing this.”

“It’s a question,” Bucky says. “Like what if your back started itching right now? How would you even scratch it? Must get annoying.”

Sam’s back starts to itch, right between his shoulder blades. He rolls his shoulders, but Bucky’s got his wings on securely, so there’s no relief to be had there. 

“I hate you so much,” Sam says through gritted teeth. “I’m going to travel back in time and unplug your stupid Hydra freezer. You’re going to melt like an evil popsicle. You’ll never make it to the twenty-first century.”

“Three minutes until drop,” Bucky says cheerfully. “If you want to time travel, now’s your chance.”

“That’s not how time travel works,” Sam says. “If I could time travel, I’d have infinite time to time travel. That’s the whole point of time travel.”

“Oh, sure, like you’re an expert.”

“I was a good little superhero and did my basic ‘Spatiotemporal Anomalies and Hazards’ training,” Sam counters. “Where were you?”

Bucky gives him a flat look, and with a twist of his gut, Sam remembers. That was the week Bucky had just finished his mandatory psychological evaluations. He’d been closed-off, quiet, radiating hurt and confusion. Sam hadn’t known how to help him except to be entirely normal around him. Bucky had skipped all of his training that week. 

Sam puts his hand on Bucky’s arm, an apology. Bucky makes an amused sort of exhale, not quite a laugh, but enough to tell Sam that he hasn’t fucked up.

Bucky finishes tightening the last strap on Sam’s wings. He steps away from Sam, and Sam barely keeps himself from stepping with him.

“There. All set,” Bucky says. And then because he’s an asshole, he looks Sam up and down like he’s checking him out. 

“My eyes are up here, dude,” Sam says. His skin is prickling. He tells himself it’s just the pre-mission adrenaline hitting his system.

Bucky meets his eyes. There’s something serious about his expression, suddenly. He looks like he’s about to say something.

“Twenty seconds until drop,” the pilot calls.

“On it,” Sam calls back. When he turns around, Bucky’s got that stupid smirk back on his face.

“See you on the other side?” he says. He holds his hand out, and Sam takes it, pulling Bucky close to his chest.

“See you on the other side,” Sam says, and then he stands at the opening hatch and lets himself fall.

  
  
  


“Look at you,” Bucky says, when Sam finally lands. “I can’t believe you pretend you’re not ready to do this when you look like that every time you come down.”

Sam takes off his goggles. He’s still breathing hard, exhilarated, his entire body shaking from the thrill of dodging missiles. Bucky’s not unscathed either — he’s got blood on him, and on his knives, and he’s holding himself in that careful way he does after he’s killed someone, like he doesn’t fully trust himself yet.

“Look like what?” Sam asks.

Bucky just gives him a look and then turns away. In a bit, they’ll have to debrief, give in their mission report, but for now they have a moment to themselves, surrounded by soldiers who are keeping their distance. 

Sam chases after Bucky, his wings still unfolded, trailing slipstreams behind him.

“You know, you might think this cryptic schtick is cute and all, but it’s not,” Sam says to Bucky’s back. He doesn’t know why he keeps letting Bucky get under his skin. Bucky’s still walking away from him, weaving between weapons crates and parked vehicles. Sam has to pause to fold up his wings, and when he does, Bucky’s looking over his shoulder at him, like he’s waiting for him to follow.

Something about the expression on Bucky’s face makes Sam’s mouth run dry. He walks after Bucky a little faster.

Bucky takes him to an empty storage room.

 _All right, cool, he’s finally going to stab me_ , Sam thinks.

But that’s not what happens. Instead, Bucky takes Sam by the shoulders and spins him so that Sam’s back is facing him. Bucky begins aggressively unbuckling Sam’s wings.

“Hey, man, I can do that myself,” Sam protests weakly.

“Shut up,” Bucky growls. “No, you can’t. You know how many close calls you had this time? At least eight. You keep letting them get too close.” He yanks on the straps across Sam’s sternum so hard that Sam rocks back on his heels a bit from the force of it, briefly feels the resistance of Bucky’s chest.

“I don’t clean your knives for you,” Sam says. “I don’t touch your robot arm. Let me do my own damn wings, all right?” He tries to push away from Bucky, but Bucky has him by the harness on his shoulders, effortlessly strong.

“You always look so fucking fearless,” Bucky says, his voice gone tight and coiled.

“Excuse me?” Sam says.

“After you land. Every time. You look like you won a dare. Like you got away with something you shouldn’t have. Made it back alive.”

Sam knows what Bucky’s about to say before he’s said it.

“That’s what Steve used to look like.”

Sam sucks in a breath. They don’t invoke Steve often. Only when they get _really_ riled up with each other and say things they can’t take back. Behind him, Bucky’s still taking off Sam’s wings, quick and precise.

“Why the hell is it that nothing I do is good enough for you?” Sam says.

He can’t see Bucky’s face, can’t tell his reaction, but his hands slow for just a second. “You trying to impress me, Wilson?” Bucky says, level and quiet.

“No one else is watching,” Sam says. 

“Yeah, I can’t fucking look away,” Bucky says, and this time Sam can hear that he sounds pissed. He finishes taking off Sam’s wings, lifts the weight of them off Sam’s shoulders, and sets them down to the side, gentle. Without them, Sam feels too small and too unwieldy all at once. He rolls his sore shoulders and turns around.

“All right,” Sam says patiently. 

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “All right?”

“You’ve got a problem with me,” Sam says. “Let’s stop dancing around it. Tell me what it is. We’re supposed to have each other’s backs in this, right?”

Bucky tilts his head. “Were you even thinking of me when you were taking those risks up there? You didn’t have a plan, you weren’t even _talking_ to me. You barely got away with it, Sam.”

“But I _did_ get away with it,” Sam says.

Bucky steps closer to Sam, gets right in his face. They’re chest to chest in the storage room. “All right, fine. My _problem_ is you keep taking stupid risks because you think that’s what makes you worthy of the shield. Which is bullshit. That’s not what makes you worthy. That’s what gets you killed, Sam.”

“You make it sound so damn easy,” Sam says. “Remember how I’m just a guy? I’ve got wings, but I don’t have super soldier juice or a robot arm. I can barely throw the shield without pulling a muscle. Maybe risks are all I got.”

Bucky makes a frustrated noise. “I’m trying to tell you they’re _not_ the only thing you’ve got. You’ve got me. So use me already. That’s what I was built for, remember?”

“Then—” Sam says, and then he’s interrupted by Bucky pushing him back against the wall and kissing him.

Holy shit. This is just like the dream, except it’s _real_ , and of course Bucky would be this greedy, this pushy. He’s barely giving Sam a chance to react, his hands pressing insistently on Sam, all over him. Sam brings his hand up to Bucky’s jaw, trying to take control of the kiss. As soon as he’s done that, though, Bucky draws away, shoves Sam back again.

“Shut up,” Bucky says.

“I didn’t — I didn’t say anything,” Sam says, still stunned.

Bucky smirks, then. “Good,” he says, and drops to his knees. He opens Sam’s pants with the same kind of ruthless efficiency he used to take off Sam’s wings, and then he has his mouth on Sam, hot and wet, his tongue flattening against him in a way that makes it clear that Bucky has _definitely_ done this before, and he’s annoyingly good at it.

“God, I hate you,” Sam says, barely keeping himself from tilting his hips forward and fucking into Bucky’s throat.

Bucky’s eyes tilt up towards his. It’s impossible to tell with Bucky’s lips stretched over his cock, but Sam’s pretty sure Bucky’s somehow still smirking.

In Sam’s dream, Bucky’s hair had been long, the length it was when Sam first met him. Long enough for Sam to twist his fingers into it and pull. In reality, Bucky cut his hair a long time ago, but Sam still puts his hand in it and makes a fist. Bucky moans around Sam’s cock, his eyes going glazed and then fluttering closed, that smirking expression gone.

“Fuck,” Sam says, his voice harsh. “Why do you have to be so fucking pretty, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, but Sam can tell by the way his grip on Sam’s hips tighten, that he likes that. Sam keeps up the pulling pressure in Bucky’s hair, just tight enough to offer a little bit of stinging resistance — Sam’s not _that_ much of an asshole. Bucky’s moans again around his cock, and this time Sam remembers where they are, how someone could come by at any time, and see Bucky’s head moving up and down in Sam’s lap and hear—

It takes him over the edge. Sam comes with a bitten-off swear and a helpless shuddering of his spine that feels almost violent. He is able to register, distantly, that Bucky swallows around him, like a goddamn show-off. The next time they do this, Sam will have a lot to compete with.

“This was your way of telling me you want to be partners?” Sam says, catching his breath. “You were just going to get on your knees for me?”

“Didn’t see you getting the point any other way,” Bucky says, wiping his mouth. “You’re so stubborn. Plus I really wanted to blow you.”

“Sure, yeah, all right,” Sam says, thoughts going a little hazy at the fucked-out sound of Bucky’s voice. “Now get up here.”

He hauls Bucky up to his feet, and this time, Bucky lets Sam kiss him the way he wants to kiss him, pressing his tongue into the seam of his lips, stroking one hand lazily down Bucky’s side to cup him through his pants.

Bucky grunts a little, his hips moving forward, the strength of it easily pressing Sam back even further into the wall. Sam doesn’t waste any time, gets Bucky’s pants open, gets his hand wrapped around his cock. He’s hard and leaking, just from sucking Sam off, just from letting Sam come down his throat. 

“Stop teasing,” Bucky mumbles, even as he grinds into the pressure of Sam’s hand. He’s not taking anything else, even though he could easily do that, could move Sam just where he wanted, _take_ him any way he wanted. A part of Sam wants that. The other part is too busy trying to find out what noises he can get Bucky to make, just by changing the angle of his wrist.

A lot of noises, it turns out. Sam’s grip is turning slick as Bucky groans Sam’s name into his neck, and fucks into his fist. His voice sounds so uncharacteristically vulnerable — this is the Bucky that Sam’s only seen rare glimpses of, that he feels so violently protective of without really knowing why.

He wants to take care of Bucky. He wants to be good enough to see both of them through this.

“I got you, Buck. I got you,” Sam says, mindlessly, unable to express this building emotion in any other way. He says it again, and again, and maybe Bucky gets it after the fourth or fifth time, maybe he hears the promise in it, because he says Sam’s name again, rocks his hips forward, and then he’s spilling into Sam’s hand.

Then there’s nothing but the sound of their own harsh breathing. Sam makes to move his hand away, get it cleaned off, but then Bucky’s gripping his wrist, keeping him there.

“Not yet,” Bucky whines. “One more. Please, Sam.”

Bucky’s _still hard_.

“Oh my fucking god,” Sam says. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His hand moves reflexively, and Bucky whines again, his hips moving. Sam realizes that Bucky’s already close.

“Is this a super soldier thing? You get to have a super dick too?” Sam says hysterically. “I thought that was just a myth.”

Bucky huffs a laugh. “What’s the matter, you jealous? This is nothing, you should see—” He breaks off in an overwhelmed little whimper, because Sam chooses that moment to vindictively tighten his grip.

Sam swears, and starts stroking Bucky in earnest now. Sam’s hand is already filthy, and the wet sounds that they’re making now are absolutely obscene. He can’t believe this is happening. But it does happen. Bucky comes a second time, barely three minutes after the first, and Sam’s so fucking turned on by it that _he_ almost gets hard again.

“That is so unfair,” Sam says.

“It’s pretty great, not going to lie,” Bucky says, smug and tired, his voice slurring. Sam almost wants to pet his hair.

“We’re going to talk about this,” Sam says. “This being partners thing. The last time I had a partner, I let him down. And I don’t want to do that again. All right?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Can we talk about it at home, though? I could probably get it up again in another twenty minutes.”

“I hate you so much,” Sam says. “No. Absolutely not. We have to turn in our mission report. We have a meeting in five minutes.”

“After our mission report,” Bucky says, implacable.

“Fine,” Sam says. “Menace.”

Bucky laughs, and kisses Sam sloppily across the jaw, which is pretty gross in Sam’s opinion. It’s not endearing at all, and it doesn’t make Sam want to kiss Bucky again.

They’re still late to their meeting.


End file.
